Rush of a Lifetime

(Is this okay? It might be a little... I mean crime... I have removed a few bits.)

I can’t help it. I need to do this. I have to. There’s no other way. I bang as hard as I can on the door, hoping beyond hope the family inside would be kind enough to let me in. “Help! Help!” I scream at the top of my lungs, my voice raw, throat soar, panic through every syllable. “Let me in! Please!” My voice cracks at the last word. Hard. My breathing heavy, panicked. They should understand how much I need this, how much trouble I would be in.

Finally, the door opens and I fall in. I look up, mouth agape. Standing in front of me, a beautiful woman, a woman I’ve seen on several occasions out for a run in the morning or mowing the lawn or getting the car ready to go wherever she goes in the mornings. She looks like she’s about to go out even now, though I know this isn’t the case. She never goes out this late in the evening. Her hair is up in a ponytail, a sports bra and gym shorts the only things covering her body. She looks to be around 25 years old, but I’ve never confirmed this theory. I quickly scramble to a sitting position, moving to look outside, both ways, before closing the door and locking it in a hurry. I calm my breathing as much as I can, but in vain. “Do you want some tea or something?” the lady asks me. Wary, I nod. I need this. She nods back and goes to the kitchen. “Do make yourself comfortable. There are blankets on the couch. It’ll help to calm you.” I can only nod.

Shakily, I crawl my way to the room she said had the blankets. I feel like I just flung myself out of a moving plane thinking I didn’t have a parachute, then it opened and caught me. But I’m not out of the woods yet. “You look awful,” the woman says while coming in with two mugs of fragrant steaming tea. “What happened to you?”

I take the mug and sip the calming flavour of the tea. Only then do I catch a glimpse of what I look like. A mess. My dress is torn in multiple places, and my arms and legs are smeared with mud. The latex gloves I am wearing are also very dirty, but the most in-tact item I am wearing. I look like I have been mauled by a pig, which really isn’t that far off from the truth. I shudder and take another sip of the tea. The kind lady lays a comforting arm on my shoulder, staring with painfully kind eyes, worried for my safety. You shouldn’t be. This is only happenstance. It needs to… I need to… I won’t be able to stop it.

“I think I have some new clothes that might fit you. Do you want me to go get them?” she asks. I hesitate. Should I take things from her? Though I am in her house, she’s still a stranger. I just look down, gripping my tea tightly, as though it were a squirming puppy I didn’t want to drop. It seems like the lady understands the message I’m trying to relay. She slides her hand up and down my shoulder, soothingly. She is my favourite aunt and I am her spoiled niece, sitting here, in the middle of the night, calming down from a very bad nightmare. But this is real. And I don’t know her. But she feels inviting. And so I tell her.

At first, my voice is broken, croaking, frog-like, afraid. “I- he- the guy- I don’t know- only just got away…” I burst out into tears, the story too difficult to relay, to relive, multiple times until I got it right. Need to… Needs to be perfect. It’s never been this perfect before. All that time training has helped so much. She looks down at my gloves. I choke. “G-germiphobe…” She nods.

“Do you want me to call the police?”

“NO!” I shout anxiously, earnestly. Silence. Can’t get them involved. Can’t call police. Can’t trust them. “I just… I can’t. I’ll have to… can’t…” My voice breaks again.

She nods. “I understand.” A few moments of silence, me drinking tea, her comforting me. Soon, my breathing is much more normal, and my tea is down to the last few leaves in the bottom of the cup. Suddenly, the lady speaks up again, only to offer yet another gift. “Do you want to take a shower? It can be relaxing.” I look over to her, my golden eyes pleading. She nods again. “I’ll go get it ready. You’ll be okay here alone for a few minutes.” I turn to make a show of looking around in paranoia, as if a group of wild boars would come out of the walls at any moment and only target me. Finally, I nod. A shower. Sounds great. She rubs my arm one last time before getting up and going to what I assume is the bathroom.

Once she’s away, I have an urge to look around the kitchen. It’s a nice place. Marble countertops, fancy pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, a whole wall covered in nice wine glasses. Almost makes me sick. Class system. Rich versus poor. People who can afford to purchase nice kitchenware whilst the rest of us starve.

A shiny glimmer on the corner of the counter catches my eye. Fancy sharp knives, most likely for cooking. I inch closer. So pretty. The prettiest knives I’ve ever seen. I pick one up and weigh it in my hand. Too thin. I pick up another. Too heavy. Yet another. Jackpot. As soon as I find it, the sound of the shower hits my ears. Perfect. This is perfect. The most perfect job I’ve done. As they say, practice makes perfect.

I tiptoe in the direction she had gone before. Bathroom. I was right. And what a beautiful piece of architecture and interior design it is. The walls are painted a bright blue color to give an air of calm water and solidity. One or two simple paintings are hung on the walls. The room is the cleanest I’ve ever seen a room in my life. A very absorbent-looking mat lays on the tile near the shower, which is also beautiful. It’s a glass walk-in shower. I’d never seen a walk-in shower before. She is standing there, back turned to me, in front of the open door of the shower, probably testing the temperature. Now is my chance.

I grip the knife tightly in my right hand. This has always been the hardest part. The most important. The reason I do this. I need to. It’s time. Only once every five months I feel the need to. But the urge gets so strong that I will mess it all up. Surprised I haven’t yet. Get out of my head!!! Can’t. She’s kind. Closer. Have to. No other way. She’s the one. This time. She must. It’s been perfect so far. No way to mess it up. Right behind her. So close. I softly, with experienced movements, lift my knife to her neck. It will bleed. (Took out a sentence here) But the water will wash it away. I push the knife deep into her throat, her unable to scream, (Don't think I can keep this). As predicted, most of it is washed away, but a few stubborn drops remain. (Didn't realize how violent this was) “I’m sorry,” I whisper into her ear before the light drifts from her eyes and I don’t have to worry about yet another struggling animal. I sigh. It’s over. It’s all over. I sit for a few more moments, (Delete) feeling the rush yet again, the rush I can never get rid of. I live for these moments. But I just can’t shake the feeling that I got the wrong person.

I close her eyes with my fingertips. She deserves some respect. She was so kind. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper again. I reach into my dress pocket and disclose the note I have written in advance, folded. I stab it through into the back of the lady’s head. My M.O. On the page, one single letter. E. Together, they spell a word I’ve been spelling for the past two and a half years. It’s the last day. The final letter.

I wash up as much as I can in the running water, remove my gloves, and change into the clothes she brought into the room for me. Luckily, I have practice with containing the blood from the kill. My dad’s a butcher. Spotless. I am spotless.

“Mommy?” rings throughout the house. I freeze. Child? There’s a child? I didn’t know anything about a child. Little footsteps run through the hall. I have to act fast. I open the door and click it shut behind me. The child won’t remember. A tiny figure races down the hall to me. “Who are you? Where is Mommy?”

I have to say something. Kids are gullible. Right? Damn. It was all so perfect as well. Dread seeps through me. I left this kid motherless. What have I done? I kneel to her level. “Your mother is taking a shower right now,” I lie. I ruined it. I always do. I should have paid more attention to her! Looking back, the signs of a daughter were all there! How have I not noticed? I planned for months! “She’ll be out in a little while. Why don’t we go get ice cream while we’re waiting?” I offer. I can’t let the police have her. She can’t be a witness. No witnesses. She can help. Children are pure, can be molded.

She nods happily. “Okay!” She yells, takes my hand, and runs ahead of me, thinking we were going to get ice cream. Oh, how wrong you are, child. You will be me. This was my last run. I’ll train you to hate the rich, to get your revenge.

We disappear into the depths of the system. No one will find us. They can’t. What’s left of my legacy is just a bunch of kills and 11 letters.

W E A L T H P U R G E.